Sansatsu
by Kaiser Ryouga II
Summary: Based on the SFEX series. The search for Kairi begins. But can Hokuto handle the pressure of defeating her once kind brother? And what new doors will this unlock inside herself? Co-written with Samuraiter.
1. Change and Destiny

This story has a rating of PG-13.  
It may not be appropriate for very young readers.  
  
DISCLAIMER The /Street Fighter/ series is, and always   
will be, the property of Capcom Co., Ltd. The /Street   
Fighter EX/ series is, and always will be, the property of   
both Capcom Co., Ltd. and Arika Co., Ltd. The story which   
follows has not been written for gain or profit in any way.  
  
Kaiser Ryouga II and Samuraiter Present ....  
A :: Guilty Writers :: Production  
*** Formatted For FFN ***  
  
-~- SANSATSU -~-  
  
Chapter One  
Change and Destiny  
  
A calming wind -- how fortuitous of the weather in the   
proud nation of Japan. Though Japan was brought to life by   
its many climate changes, a feeling of calm was lost on it.   
The gentle breeze rustled through the trees and shifted the   
leaves, leaving behind an eerie, chilling sound of quiet   
wind. It was said that things were always at the calmest   
just before the storm hits.  
  
Deep in the suburbs of a sleepy section of Osaka was a   
large, significant building, a substantial structure built   
on foundations of wood, brick and faith. A towering set of   
stone steps climbed up into the main courtyard of that   
building, and its thatched, curved roofs were festooned by   
black, soulful crows, watching ominously at all comers and   
goers. Dust blew along the cold stone floor of the main   
courtyard as the eastern winds grew in ardour once more.   
The only sound that could be heard for great distances was   
the gentle whistling of the wind chimes perched upon the   
massive wooden beams of the torii towering over the large   
door of the building.   
  
To all who came across it or those who ventured inside it,   
they only regarded the building for what it was: One of the   
jinja, a large shrine dedicated to the Shinto faith. It   
was regarded by most as a thing of the past. With the   
coming of modern technology and industrialization, people   
all across the world had turned their backs to religion,   
though there were always people who maintained their   
beliefs, and they were the ones who allowed the sacred   
shrine to still stand strong amidst the hustle and bustle   
of an ever-changing Japan. Was that shrine a relic of the   
past? Maybe. Was it obsolete? Hardly.   
  
To practice faith was not its only endeavour. The family   
that owned the shrine still paid their dues to their   
heritage by passing down their most sacred treasure. That   
treasure was the knowledge of the celebrated Mizukami   
style. While few knew of it, the ones that did paid   
respect to its strength. Like all fighting styles, Mizukami   
had more than one denomination, but, in its case, there was   
only one that inspired the imagination.   
  
Mizukami kita or 'north' was the more general form of the   
style. It focused heavily on the manipulation of power via   
a weapon, primarily the quarterstaff -- the bo. The   
curved-edge spear -- the naginata -- was originally the   
preferred weapon, but that had changed over time due to the   
changes of politics within Japan.   
  
Change.   
  
Change was a fickle word, one that could mean anything to a   
person. It could be for the better, it could be for the   
worse, but there were some people who wanted change, no   
matter what the outcome would be. One of those people just   
happened to be sitting quietly on the steps to the shrine.   
His raven-black hair, weakly tied into a ponytail, wafted   
in the winds. With one leg extended, the other drawn up   
against his body, the young man stared out into the distant   
sky ... so far away. That youngster was dissimilar to the   
environment in which he was located. While the whole area   
seemed peaceful, that man possessed a latent ocean of   
disquiet in his heart. The quiet life of a shrine keeper   
was unsuited to him by all lengths, those stone walls were   
like a prison to him, and covertly, his soul screamed out   
for freedom.   
  
"Hey! Kairi!"  
  
Kairi looked back slowly. He'd know that bouncing voice   
anywhere. A young girl dashed quickly over to him from the   
inner chambers of the shrine, her small blue-and-lavender   
outfit bounded around her body as she neared Kairi with   
innocent strides. Before long, she was beside the older   
man, staring down at him with innocent, pure marble eyes.   
"Hey, can't you hear me, Kairi?"  
  
"Nanase," Kairi started, "you ran over here so urgently.   
Has something happened?"  
  
Nanase blinked and asked, "With what?"  
  
"You said you had things to deal with privately. I assume   
that was not your training."  
  
The younger girl took a seat on the steps, next to her   
older brother, saying, "That was two weeks ago, and it was   
a trip to Okinawa ... but Dad didn't let me go. I wish   
he'd let me get on with things like that. It's like he   
expects me to take over this shrine when I get older."  
  
Kairi smiled and said, "You may just have to. You can't   
predict things like that. Our father just happens to see   
it that way ... not that I support every decision he   
makes." He then chuckled a little and added, "He has hidden   
enough from me ...."  
  
Nanase stared at Kairi curiously. When any of her friends   
came over, which was a rarity, the first thing they noticed   
was Kairi. They'd comment on how 'cute and mysterious' he   
was, but, the moment they actually got to talk to him, they   
would step back a little. Kairi always seemed to have his   
head in the clouds. It was like, sometimes, he was in   
another world. Not that she thought her brother was weird,   
but, still, Kairi's nature was ... odd, to say the least.   
  
"Uh ..." The younger girl looked from side to side. "... I   
guess so. So ... why are you just sitting out here?"  
  
Kairi looked back up into the sky and said, "I was admiring   
the sky. It is beautiful, is it not?"  
  
"I suppose ...."  
  
The older man ignored Nanase's lack of enthusiasm as he   
added, "It is beautiful because it is always changing. To   
be trapped in one form of stasis for all eternity, that   
must be the greatest punishment of all -- to be restricted   
to monotony."  
  
"Big brother, why are you so weird?" Nanase asked   
playfully.  
  
"Weird?" Finally, Kairi looked away from the sky. "I   
suppose I am."  
  
Nanase just smiled and said, "You're not supposed to say   
that. You're supposed to flip out and scream how cool you   
are. Right?"  
  
And Kairi returned that smile. "I doubt that. Not   
everyone acts the same with things like this. Sometimes   
you have to find your own way ..." Then, he looked down to   
his hand. A few sparks streaked across his tapered fist,   
as if to spark off a flame. "... and, when you have that   
other way, it's best to see it through to the end."  
  
"Yeah, well, anyways ..." Nanase began. "... I actually   
did have something to tell you. Hokuto wanted to meet with   
you in the training hall, something about practice before   
Dad gets back?"  
  
Kairi nodded. Not that he was really interested in that at   
that moment. "I assumed that she would. If only I knew   
what --"  
  
"Kairi, Nanase."  
  
Both of the martial artists in question turned to look   
back. A woman's voice had called on them, a stern voice   
that indicated the dedication of her efforts. Her long  
seductive locks of dark black hair were tossed in the   
breeze, as was the fabric of her hakama and kataginu. Her   
eyes reflected the sternness of her voice, and it was   
obvious that she was devoted to her duties to the shrine   
and the legacy of Mizukami. It was Hokuto.   
  
Hokuto looked over at her younger sister, saying, "You had   
better run along now, Nanase."  
  
The younger girl just shrugged as she began to walk off.   
"Sure," she said.  
  
As soon as Nanase left the steps of the shrine, a silence   
fell between Kairi and Hokuto. Though they were brother   
and sister, and there was love there, it was safe to assume   
that they never really had gotten along very well. They   
were polar opposites, after all. Kairi always viewed his   
life in terms of the world he never got to experience. He   
was a dreamer outside of his desires as a martial artist --   
the 'Crane' of legend, in effect.   
  
Hokuto was different to that in all ways. She viewed her   
life in terms of the duties she held as both a miko and the   
future successor to the Mizukami style. She was an   
unyielding realist, a woman who had abandoned most of her   
femininity to follow in the footsteps of Kousei, her   
father. She was, in her way, the 'Turtle' of legend.  
  
That difference in attitude and opinion led to minor forms   
of competition between the two of them while they were   
growing up. They both wondered who would succeed as master   
of Mizukami style when their father passed away, and that   
position was wordlessly contested between the two of them.   
  
It was then that Kairi began to change his perspective   
toward his father.   
  
Where Nanase was the apple of their father's eye, Hokuto   
only sought to obey him, as she was commanded to do, and   
Kairi ... as time grew -- as Kairi grew -- he realized that   
Hokuto was never really the issue. All the discontent, all   
the resentment was based on his father. Hokuto was merely   
an extension of that man's soulless dedication. From that,   
Kairi looked within himself and found nothing but a haze of   
questions.   
  
/Why am I so uncomfortable here?/  
  
/Why does knowledge of Mizukami-ryuu not satisfy me?/  
  
/What does the world have to offer me?/  
  
/What is my father hiding from me?/  
  
Kairi continued to search and search and search, but he   
found nothing ... until one day, when he discovered just   
what his father had been hiding from him. It was the   
unbridled strength of the flame, the only fighting art that   
could contest Mizukami on an even playing field.  
  
It was the phenomenal power of the Kajikami style.   
  
When Kairi discovered that power, it all started to make   
sense. His apathy toward the Mizukami style was there   
because he knew that something deeper existed, something   
stronger. The burning spirits of the flame were offering   
Kairi the answers and direction that he needed in his life   
and, though it had only been a few months since he had   
begun practicing Kajikami, he was sure that he could   
control it in time. For the time being, though, he'd have   
to hide his new revelations from everyone, even his two   
sisters.   
  
After the silence began to get awkward, Hokuto decided to   
speak, saying, "I was hoping to see you before Father   
returns from Kyoto. I have taken care of all the   
arrangements for the festival on Sunday."  
  
Kairi stared off into the distance again, replying, "You   
are happy to help organize such meaningless things?"  
  
"It is an important day for us," Hokuto retorted. "It will   
be the first time in months that the shrine doors will be   
open the public. We have to do all we can to make this a   
success, even if we would rather be doing something else."  
  
"I see. So ... you think this is what I was put on this   
earth to do, eh? Catering to aged beliefs and mannerisms?   
I am a fighter, Hokuto. I cannot be satisfied with living   
that kind of life. You might be able to accept it, but I   
have to spread my wings, sister."  
  
Hokuto's eyes narrowed. "Why are you so selfish?"  
  
But Kairi's passion was enough to match her words. "Why   
are you so blind?"  
  
It was a stalemate. Both verbal jabs hit home, but the   
only one who truly thought about it was Hokuto. That was   
always the way for the two of them. Any argument would   
spring up, and they would both hold each other to a draw,   
but that routine was lost on Kairi. He was a man of change   
and development, not continuity. Perhaps that was why he   
was so indifferent towards shrine-life. Everything always   
stayed the same. Rather than stay and argue, Kairi stood   
up with a relaxed jerk and began to walk away until Hokuto   
grasped him by the arm.  
  
Kairi looked back at his sister. In her dark, soulful   
eyes, there was a spark of concern, a spark that was   
brought on by the unbreakable bonds of love between   
siblings.   
  
"Kairi," she began, her voice carrying a brief hint of   
sisterly emotion, "what's happening to you?"  
  
* * * *  
  
/Hokuto .../  
  
Kairi growled hard with those memories. That was   
approximately two weeks before that fateful day when he   
left the shrine in Osaka. As he looked up again into the   
night sky, those strong memories of his old life back in   
that illimitable prison returned to him. Since his   
ascension into Kajikami, his memories of the past were   
beginning to fade with each day that he became stronger.   
Regardless, that part of his life was over. There was only   
one path he would follow from then on.  
  
That path would not be that of his father, Kousei, or that   
of his sister, Hokuto.  
  
It would be his path.   
  
The Kajikami fighter studied his surroundings. He was in a   
typically seedy back street. Normally, he would stay clear   
of such filth, but, at night, those streets became a beacon   
to all street fighters, and they would provide him with the   
challenge needed to increase in strength ... to grow   
stronger ... to change.  
  
* * * *  
  
"Yaaah!"  
  
After the mean, cruel and radical sound of a searing slice,   
two halves of a training dummy clattered against the matted   
ground of the training room. After wiping the sweat from   
her brow, Hokuto released the naginata from her tense grip   
and lowered herself to two knees. Each breath she took in   
reminded Hokuto of the fate that would await her on the   
following day.   
  
On the following day, she would begin her search for her   
brother, Kairi.   
  
It was the middle of the night, so it was ill advised for   
Hokuto to be training at that hour, but her tense mind   
could not get to sleep. In fact, she could barely think   
with all the issues circulating in her brain. So much was   
happening so quickly ever since that day two weeks ago.  
  
It was not nice day at all, to be blunt. Dark clouds loomed   
over Osaka, and a few claps of thunder had a swing at the   
ambiance, as well. The calming wind was gone. The only   
thing left was a harsh wind blowing in from the west. The   
peaceful harmony of the shrine had been exchanged for a   
bleak, eerie feeling, as if a door to Hell was about to   
swing open. Hokuto remembered how the thunder had awoken   
her. The instant she arose from sleep, she could sense   
that something was off. After dressing herself in her   
usual miko robes, she had left her room to search the   
shrine for the source of her worries. Both Nanase and her   
father were still asleep, but Kairi's bed had not been   
slept in. From that, Hokuto knew that it all involved   
Kairi, somehow. Her search for him eventually brought her   
to the courtyard, where she finally saw Kairi ... and what   
he was doing.  
  
Hokuto could not hide the awe she felt from seeing Kairi at   
that point. He leaped full force into the air, and the   
ground seemed to shake as he dove off the stone-plated   
floor. As he reached the epoch of his jump, Kairi pointed   
both of his fists at the ground, and gathered some of the   
most dreadful Ki ever manipulated by a fighter, screaming   
the words "Shinkou Hatsudou!"  
  
Hokuto recalled gasping as a huge orb of dark lavender   
energy was projected from her brother's fists. The energy   
was so ... primal, so forceful, absolutely the reverse of   
how Mizukami felt, but that really was not what bothered   
Hokuto the most. What truly frightened her was that sick   
grin of intent painted on Kairi's lips as he landed. Of  
course, that grin did not last long, as, the moment he   
landed, he passed out from exhaustion. Whatever that smirk   
meant, Hokuto knew that it didn't bode well. She had   
sensed strange energies brewing within Kairi for a while   
... but she never expected something like that from him.   
  
The next day, when Hokuto informed Kousei about what she   
had seen, he exhaled deeply and said only one word ....  
  
"Kajikami."  
  
Hokuto had been ignorant of that for all of her life. She   
had never been told anything about it or the kind of damage   
it had caused in the past, but the look of fear in her   
father's face said all that needed to be spoken. They   
planned to do something about it, but it was too late.   
Kairi was already gone.   
  
In the next few days, reports were televised about several   
attacks carried out by a man fitting Kairi's description.   
Hokuto knew exactly who it was, but she could not believe   
that her once kind-hearted brother could commit such   
atrocities. And what was more, it could only get worse.   
That was when her father gave Hokuto her mission.  
  
"Stop Kairi."  
  
Which was why, on that night, Hokuto could not help but   
train. In a cruel twist of fate, the brother she had come   
to love had become her enemy, her target, but that dark   
power, that 'Kajikami', had to be sealed away, and, if her   
father believed that she alone was up to that task, then   
Hokuto would follow through on it.   
  
/I have to bring him back here,/ Hokuto thought. /I must   
stop him./  
  
Heaving a sigh, Hokuto dragged herself off her feet and   
stood up silently, walking over to the sliding panel door   
that led out of the training room. Before she even knew   
it, Hokuto was at the door to Nanase's room. Being careful   
not to wake up her sister, Hokuto slid open the door and   
stepped into her younger sister's room. To be perfectly   
honest, she did not want to have to say any goodbyes. She   
was never really comfortable with expressing her innermost   
emotions, and a parting was one of them, but she had to see   
her sister one last time, for only Kami-sama knew how long   
it would take her to find Kairi. Without uttering a single   
word, Hokuto walked over to her sister's sleeping form and   
briefly smiled. Hopefully, Nanase would never have to be   
involved in the whole affair.   
  
Even though she and Nanase weren't exactly the closest of   
sisters, Hokuto valued her family, which was probably why   
she believed that Kairi was not beyond redemption, even   
though her father did.   
  
"I will bring him back here, Nanase," Hokuto whispered   
gently. "Rest peacefully."  
  
With that, Hokuto turned to the door and began to walk   
away, but, just as her hand reached the sliding door,   
Nanase's tiny, sleep-weakened voice called out. "H-Hokuto?   
Is that you?"  
  
/I was careless,/ Hokuto reprimanded herself. "Yes,   
Nanase."  
  
A short silence. "... you're ... you're going to go find   
Kairi, aren't you?"  
  
Hokuto nodded, not looking back. "Yes. I do not know how   
long I will be gone. Please ... look after Father and the   
shrine while I am gone."  
  
"Hokuto, wait!"  
  
The woman stopped as Nanase called out to her again, though   
Nanase was the one to speak. With a clumsy, childlike   
smile on her face, the younger Mizukami student leaned up   
from her bed. She knew that she trusted her sister to bring   
Kairi back to her as she said, "Be careful."  
  
Hokuto nodded, then slipped out the door. It was the   
beginning of her journey, the journey in which she would   
chase her brother and learn things about herself. It was   
her destiny.  
  
* * * *  
  
Far from the Japanese city of Osaka was the Japanese city   
of Tokyo, the bustling hub of culture, business and post-  
modern politics. Deep within the bowls of that huge,   
thriving city was the lively district of Shinjuku.   
Consumers, drifters and businessmen filed in and out of the   
shops and streets, while others enjoyed themselves around   
the pachinko parlors and some of the more 'suggestive'   
businesses in the area. That was the climate of Shinjuku,   
but beyond the charm and glitter, like any other main   
street, there was a hidden world of darkness and street   
combat. The battle between two warriors of that world had   
just been decided. Neither of them were particularly   
noteworthy, just a couple of street punks looking to earn a   
small wad of cash as quickly as they could.   
  
One of those punks was slammed against the wall with a   
quick roundhouse kick, and the other collected his winnings   
from the few stragglers that had bothered to bet on the   
match. In a few moments, the victor and all of the   
spectators dispersed from the alleyway in which the match   
had taken place. The only man left was the defeated one,   
his bruises and cuts left to fester as he passed out from   
exhaustion. At that point, a few droplets began to pour   
from the skies. That brief drizzle became a full-force rain   
in only a matter of minutes. Puddles began to appear on the   
dirty back streets, diluting the bloodstains smeared along   
the walls.   
  
Then ... something extraordinary happened.   
  
As rain continued to pour from the heavens, a strange   
cerulean glow started to emanate from the body of that   
defeated punk. Though he did not awaken, his body began to   
flow with new strength and vigour, and his abnormally green   
hair began to darken until it flashed the colour of a   
striking cinnamon brown. His tattered clothes also started   
to change from rough garb to a beautifully crafted fighting   
outfit, similar to a gi. The upper layer, a sky-blue   
overcoat with no sleeves, was adorned with symbols of   
chronology in the form of a zodiac. The middle layer of   
his clothing was a white, sleeved chemise, and the lowest   
layer was dark black, marked with gold designs at the edges   
and chest. The punk's trousers were distorted into a   
black-golden set of leggings, his boots transforming into a   
pair of sandals. A pure white headband appeared around the   
thug's head, and his hair, body and limbs grew until he   
took on the full appearance of a man, looking to be around   
twenty-six years of age, though his ancient-seeming attire   
indicated otherwise.  
  
In a few moments, that bright blue glow was gone, and so   
was the punk. This man stood up, no longer the punk, but a   
vessel for someone or something much more significant. His   
long brown hair blew in the winds, slightly dampened by the   
rain, but it did not change the magnitude of his return.   
  
He uttered only a few words upon his rebirth: "... Kajikami   
... has risen again."  
  
The world was in for a shock it would never forget.   
Hayate, the original, penultimate master of the legendary   
Mizukami style, had been reincarnated.  
  
* * * *  
  
"Hiya! Wa! Yata!"  
  
Sweat flew off a fighting face as easily as water off the   
back of a blade. Deep below the hot sun of Miami, Florida,   
a youthful, vigorous and skilled fighter thrust his leg   
into the air, rotating his body by the waist to swing   
around a second kick.   
  
With that final kick, his training came to an end. The   
young man lowered his guard and deeply breathed in, his   
energy spent from that crazy workout. He was of an average   
height for someone his age, his dark blue Gi and bright mop   
of red hair already dampened from the sweat.   
  
That man was Allen Snider.   
  
Allen wiped the sweat from his brow, saying, "Whoa. That   
was one hell of a workout. Now, I'll be more than ready to   
whip some ass."  
  
Allen was on the roof of an expensive Miami hotel. It was   
extravagant, sure, but with all the cash he was certain to   
win on his next fight, paying for his room there was no   
problem. Allen was ... confident, to say the least, but he   
had good reason to be. His skills were becoming quite   
famous in America. Soon, he'd be ready to take on some of   
the strongest fighters out there. The tournament final in   
which he was about fight was on the first step to his   
future. After drawing in one last wisp of breath, Allen   
picked up his gear from the floor -- spare fist wrappings,   
towels -- and walked over to the door that led inside the   
hotel. In a few minutes, after reaching his floor and   
finding his room, Allen undressed from his gi, packed it   
into his heavy-duty sports bag, and re-dressed in a formal   
designer suit. People tended to give him odd looks when he   
walked around the streets in his fighting clothes, so that   
was the best step to take.  
  
Within minutes he was ready to go, fully dressed, and with   
his bag packed. Then, a knock came at the door.  
  
/Must be room service or something,/ Allen thought. "Come   
in," he said.  
  
The door opened up to reveal a timid bellboy. "Uh ... Mr   
Snider?"  
  
"What is it, kid?"  
  
The bellboy bowed a little as he said, "Um, your taxi is   
ready, sir."  
  
Allen smiled confidently. He had forgotten that he had   
paid for a taxi ride the night before. Those hotels were   
not cheap, but they sure were handy. The American fighter   
yanked up his sports bag and walked over to the door, right   
past the bellboy, saying. "Thanks kid. Show me to the taxi,   
all right?"  
  
The bellboy nodded and shut the door behind the two of   
them, leading Allen to the taxi. Minutes later, they were   
outside the building, out in the hot Miami streets, Allen's   
taxi waiting for him just as promised. After tossing the   
bellboy a five-dollar tip for his troubles, Allen hoisted   
his sports bag into the back seat and jumped in after it.   
The location of the fighting arena where Allen was headed   
had already been told to the cab driver, so, in a flash, he   
was off. Then, at the side of the street, the mild-  
mannered bellboy, or so he would have seemed, replaced his   
innocent smile was with a darker expression, and he   
sneakily pulled out his cell phone, tapping in a number.  
  
The 'bellboy' held the phone to his face and spoke: "Yo,   
boss, it's me. Snider just left the hotel. He's on his   
way to the tournament as we speak. Tell the Deadly Rose to   
get ready for his arrival."  
  
* * * *  
  
"So, that man is on his way, eh? No problem. I'll move my   
plans into position now. Good work."  
  
After speaking that, a sharply dressed man, a little on the   
chubby side, about forty-five years of age, placed his   
modern phone on its cradle and smiled deviously. He was   
located in a marvellously designed and decorated office in   
a huge building downtown. On the simple side, it appeared   
to be nothing more than a large financial conglomerate,   
maybe on par with the Kanzuki Zaibatsu, but, to all those   
who moved in shady circles, it was a hub for the biggest   
drugs racket in America. The corporation was also dealing   
in illegal chemical weapons for use in the Middle East, and   
it was rumoured to be in league with the most powerful   
multi-national criminal organization in history, Shadaloo.   
  
The man in control of all of it was known only by one name,   
Giovanni.  
  
Giovanni smiled as he placed his hands together, not even   
bothering to hide his glee. He always loved a good   
execution. But the smile he beamed was aimed at a shadowed   
figure standing in his office. "You must be the hired gun   
that was recommended to me, the 'Deadly Rose' ...."  
  
The figure across from Giovanni's desk stepped out of the   
dimness. It was a woman. The first thing to note about   
the woman was the beauty she possessed. Her curvy,   
elegant and voluptuous body stood proudly, almost   
defiantly, declaring the obvious attractiveness of her   
looks as 'untouchable'. Her shoulder-cut red hair was   
nestled gently at the peak of her back, the shoulder of her   
black leather suit obscuring it from sight. The shirt   
beneath her leather was tight but revealing, showing off   
that hauntingly beautiful tattoo of a red rose. The tattoo   
stretched from her collarbone down to her more than ample   
right breast. Affirming that she was beautiful was nothing   
more than an underestimation.   
  
That woman was Sharon Dame, the Deadly Rose.   
  
Sharon was most definitely an assassin. Her skills as a   
martial artist and a hitwoman were legendary. Some of her   
previous 'clients' even ranked her in the same regard as   
icons like Doctrine Dark and the Spanish Ninja, Balrog.   
  
Of course, her skills came at a high price, but one could   
expect nothing less from that woman. In her list of   
targets, only one man had ever escaped her grasp, so, when   
Sharon was recommended to Giovanni by an acquaintance, he   
jumped at the chance to hire her.   
  
"Welcome to my office, Sharon," Giovanni said sneakily.   
"Your reputation precedes you. I am most honoured to have   
you in my presence."  
  
Sharon just snorted. The thorns of the Deadly Rose were as   
sharp as her petals were beautiful. "Is that right? If   
you've heard of me, then you know I don't bother with petty   
small talk."  
  
"I see. All work and no play, eh? Well, I guess that's   
why you've earned yourself such infamy. Very well. I have   
a job for you. I want you to kill a certain someone for   
me. A fighter."  
  
Sharon's eyebrow rose as she said, "A high-powered crime   
lord like yourself needs me to take out a simple fighter?   
Either he's very strong ... or you're coving your tracks."  
  
"Would it make a difference either way?" Giovanni asked.  
  
"No, I suppose it would not," Sharon said. "So, then, what   
exactly did this man do to you that made you so intent on   
his destruction?"  
  
"Very confident, aren't you? Heh. No matter. This man is   
a finalist in this year's Southern National Championships.   
I had placed a great deal of money on a fighter of my own.   
I assumed he would take this tournament without fail, since   
he is one of the strongest fighters in the state. However,   
a late entry appeared just before the tournament started.   
He made his way through the preliminaries and made it to   
the semi-finals. I realized that this man was fairly   
skilled, and I was ... concerned that my fighter would lose   
the match, so, to protect my investment, I offered him a   
sum of money to throw the fight. He refused and defeated   
my fighter in the semi-finals. That has lost me a lot of   
collateral, especially since that money was needed for ...   
other purposes. His actions have displeased me greatly. I   
had to place another bet, and, this time I will make sure   
that I don't lose. I want you to place a bullet through   
his head, during the match, in front of all the crowds. I   
want others to know what happens when they toy with the   
wishes of Giovanni."  
  
Sharon sighed, saying, "I get the picture. This isn't   
exactly what I was expecting, but a job is a job. I'll   
make no bones about it. I'll kill this man for you, by   
shotgun, in public. That will cost you 10,000 dollars, by   
the way."  
  
"Understood. Executions come expensive these days,"   
Giovanni joked.  
  
Still, Sharon was very much indifferent when she replied,   
"It's a small price to pay for a guaranteed kill. So ...   
who is this fighter you want me to finish?"  
  
Giovanni turned to one of the drawers by his desk and   
pulled out a file, handing it over to Sharon and saying,   
"This is the data my sources have collected on him. Take a   
look at it."  
  
Sharon received the dossier and began to flick through its   
pages. Then, her relaxed disposition faded away as she   
looked closer into the file and caught the name of the man   
she was hired to kill.  
  
Allen Snider.  
  
* * * *  
  
Of the many shrines of the nation-state of Japan, the very   
old Utagai shrine was the least famous. The small body of   
writing which surrounded it suggested that it had been   
constructed by a single man in the years immediately before   
the appearance of the Yamato clan and the birth of the   
civilization that would give rise to the country as it was   
known by the modern world. The identity of that single man   
was unknown, and those who came to maintain the shrine were   
only students from the University of Kyoto -- Kyodai, they   
fondly called it -- who wanted to volunteer for the job.  
  
The most recent volunteer had departed the grounds for the   
day, and the Utagai shrine was dark and silent in the   
depths of its forest of needle-bearing trees. The new Moon   
was invisible against the night, but, when it reached the   
heights of the black-blue sky, a strange light came to the   
grounds. It was a pair of green-white flames, which danced   
around each other as they passed by one tree after another.   
The animals of the forest bolted away from the apparition   
with a knowledge more fundamental than that of any human   
being of what the coming of the strange light had to mean   
for both them and their homes.  
  
With nothing more than the whisper of the wind, the   
apparition passed under the torii of the shrine and over   
the roof of its only building. It then paused in front of   
a pillar of brown-red rock that seemed out of place among   
the surrounding trees. Literally thousands of inscriptions   
were visible in the stone. Most of them were the   
scribbling of young students promising their love for each   
other, but the oldest among them was a picture of a great   
Oni and a warning that a restless spirit, once called, was   
neither forgiving nor merciful.  
  
The strange light entered the pillar, and the great Oni   
began to glow with the same ghastly flame as the ground   
started to shake. The entire Kyoto record would record the   
incident as a small tremor, but the Utagai shrine was to   
feel it at its source. Thin cracks ran up and down the   
pillar, which promptly collapsed as the trees around it   
creaked and groaned. The earth where the pillar had been   
standing burst outwards, and a column of fire -- it was a   
more familiar orange-yellow in color -- erupted from the   
resulting hole with a dull roar. The trees began to catch   
fire and fall with resounding crashes.  
  
A cloud of smoke and steam then arose from the very ground   
as the column of fire abruptly became as green-white as the   
apparition which had seemingly started it. The torii   
collapsed, and the building that was the center of the   
shrine imploded as if a giant fist had squeezed it. All   
those people in the region who held to a tradition of   
keeping animal statues in their homes as signs of good luck   
would notice a small crack in every one of those statues,   
but they would have no idea what had caused them.  
  
From the ghastly flame emerged a shadowy figure that was   
too tall, too broad to be a human being. It was wearing   
the full armor -- it was the same brown-red color as the   
pillar -- of a great warrior, a precursor of the samurai of   
history, but had it white-yellow fire in the place of hair,   
and a pair of Oni-like horns were visible among the flames.   
Its face was seemingly a mask of stark, bleached bone,   
though its sharp, inhuman fangs indicated that it had been   
made from a skull that was not of the world of mortals.   
The ghastly flame danced over its heavy, muscular body.  
  
It gestured once with both of its large, gloved hands, and   
all of the supernatural radiance disappeared, leaving only   
normal fire to attack and devour the forest and the remains   
of the Utagai shrine. It stepped away from the hole in the   
earth from which it had emerged, and, exhaling steam, it   
stooped to pick up a fragment of the pillar. Upon seeing   
the face of the Oni inscribed on it, it effortlessly   
crushed it in its face, and it laughed, its hollow, booming   
voice seeming to issue from inside the unmoving mask.  
  
For a long moment, it sniffed at the wind, ignoring all of   
the smoke that its appearance had generated. It then said   
to itself, its voice almost causing a second tremor, "My   
successor, the new flame of Kajikami, now walks the land,   
and the dogs of Mizukami search for him. ... Hayate of   
the court of Heian, you still have the belief that your   
clan can contain my power, but you will learn again that my   
destiny is to win the game of water and fire and again be   
the master of the greatest of arts."  
  
The figure walked three paces before disappearing from   
sight as the forest burned around him. It was not the   
first time that he had returned to the world for the sake   
of Kajikami, and the 'game' that he had been playing with   
Hayate had been progressing for more years than he could   
count. Generation after generation, they fought for the   
souls of their descendants, the practitioners of Mizukami   
... and Kajikami, its origin and opposite.  
  
In Osaka, at the Mizukami shrine, Kousei looked up from the   
scroll that he was reading, his dark eyes wide, his face   
pale. As cold sweat broke out on his brow, he said to   
himself, his voice faint with his memory of his two   
ancestors and their contst, "I name the beast Garuda. The   
name of Garuda ... is death."  
  
-~- End, Chapter 1 -~- 


	2. Blood, Fire, Water

The story which follows has a rating of PG-13.  
It may not be appropriate for very young readers.  
  
DISCLAIMER The /Street Fighter/ series is, and always   
will be, the property of Capcom Co., Ltd. The /Street   
Fighter EX/ series is, and always will be, the property of   
both Capcom Co., Ltd. and Arika Co., Ltd. The story which   
follows has not been written for gain or profit in any way.  
  
Kaiser Ryouga II and Samuraiter Present ....  
A :: Guilty Writers :: Production  
Formatted For FFN   
  
-- SANSATSU --  
  
Chapter 2  
EX 1, Part 2  
Blood, Fire, Water  
  
The streets of Nara had a strangeness to them that was not   
easy for a newcomer to the city to comprehend. The city   
itself was as modern as any city in Japan, but parts of it   
still reflected the history of what had been one of the   
first capitals of the country. At its roots, it was a very   
old place, and Hokuto had two reactions to it. In her   
mind, she could not help but feel that it was a privilege   
to be visiting a place that had meaning for her heritage.   
In her heart, there was a welcoming, warm feeling. Nara   
was a place that could be a second home for her.  
  
She was standing at the gates of the grounds of the palace   
of the first government of Japan, and it was when she took   
her first step across that threshold that her surroundings   
changed. One moment, she was surrounded by tourists from   
all over the country. Then, she was alone, and a strange   
wind started to blow all around her. The air had the musky   
scent of incense on it, and she could not escape the   
feeling that she was supposed to know the source of that   
scent. She followed it from building to building.  
  
Every window, every door that she encountered was closed to   
her, locked to prevent her entry. It was when she started   
to worry that she would never track down her quarry that   
she saw that the front door of one temple -- there were   
many temples in Nara, a city that had been founded largely   
by Buddhists -- had been opened slightly. She entered the   
building, all of her senses sharpened to catch any hints of   
a possible ambush. All was dark around her until she   
walked to the center of the main room.  
  
It was then that four torches, one placed at each corner of   
the room, seemed to light themselves, and she found herself   
standing at the center of a straw mat that had been laid   
out before a human-sized statue of the standing Buddha, who   
seemed to look at her with eyes that said, "Ah, yes, I am   
the one with answers to your questions." Sitting with   
crossed legs in front of that statue was a very old, very   
bald man, a Hindu mystic of India dressed only in rags and   
tattoos. Though Hokuto had only read of such mystics,   
seeing one in the flesh, with the bowl of incense cradled   
in two thin, withered hands, was a new experience for her,   
and she politely dropped to both knees and bowed her head   
to him as a gesture of respect.  
  
The mystic said, setting the bowl down on the straw mat,   
"You are looking for a man, a man who shares blood with   
you. Yes, he is your brother. I know this man, I have met   
him." His yellowy, red-rimmed eyes were rolled back in his   
head, and his voice was like dry paper tearing, but there   
was a calmness about him, a sense that he was speaking from   
a position of authority that no human being could contest.   
He added, "I have fought him, and I know why you have   
concerns for him. His whole being is in jeopardy."  
  
Hokuto asked, furtively, "Do you know where he is now?" He   
nodded slowly, and he emptied the incense bowl onto the   
straw mat, smashing the ashes flat with the palm of his   
hand before they could touch off a fire. He did not seem   
to feel any pain from the heat, and he immediately started   
drawing in the ashes with his impossibly long index   
fingers, creating a simple picture that she had no trouble   
decoding with her practiced eyes. It was a crude map of   
Japan, and he had marked out the city of Kyoto. When she   
nodded her understanding, she asked him, "If you have   
fought him, then ... what is he like now?"  
  
He said, "There is a strange fire in his blood, a fire that   
is not of this world. He seeks to tame it, but it, in   
turn, seeks to consume him. ... You are joined to him by   
blood, and you are joined to him by fire. If you seek him,   
you must heed your blood, you must not heed the fire. It   
will consume you as it wishes to consume him." The way he   
looked at her in spite of seeming almost blind was very   
similar to the way that the statue of the Buddha was   
looking at her. He was waiting for her to speak.  
  
"I have nothing to do with the Kajikami," she said to him,   
"and my purpose is to ... save him from it if I can, and to   
kill him if I cannot. He is still my brother." He had a   
beatific half-smile on his face, and she had to ask him the   
question that his face had already posed to her: "He IS   
still my brother, is he not? Please, tell me." At first,   
all he could do was shake his head slowly.  
  
He said, his joints popping and cracking as he gradually   
rose to his feet, "If you do not already know the answer to   
that question, you must not search for him. As strong as   
you believe yourself and your training to be, you are still   
a child at your heart, and the fire in your blood will use   
that against you. Do not forget who are you, and do not   
forget that saving your brother is useless if you do not   
save yourself first." He walked past her, handing her the   
empty incense bowl that he had been holding.  
  
She called out, "Please, wait! If he is as great a danger   
to me as you say he is, tell me, how did you escape, how   
did you survive?" He put on his beatific half-smile again,   
and he chuckled, as if the answer to her question was   
perfectly obvious. She asked him, more insistently, "How   
did you do it? Tell me!" He walked over to her and laid   
one hand on her head, and she noticed, for the first time,   
that he was taller than she was.  
  
"This old Dhalsim," he said, "did not have it in him to   
face that man. You ask me how I did it, I tell you that I   
did not do it. I did not escape, I did not survive." She   
blinked her dark eyes once, and, when she opened them   
again, he was gone, as if he had never been present. She   
still held the incense bowl, and she still stood before the   
statue of the standing Buddha on the straw mat, but he was   
gone. The four torches were no longer lit, and she could   
hear the voices of tourists outside the temple.  
  
She said to herself, holding the incense bowl close to her   
chest, "I will come to Kyoto, Kairi, and I will test your   
resolve on my own. I cannot believe that the Kajikami has   
you fully in its grasp." She then turned the incense bowl   
over and laid it at the feet of the Buddha, saying a small   
prayer before turning and leaving the temple with many   
doubts weighing on her mind.  
  
There was a full minute of waiting as two attendants in   
outlandish uniforms pulled open gates of polished bronze to   
admit the white limousine that had pulled up to them after   
a very difficult drive over too many hills and around too   
many bends. The estate, one of several that the Puruna   
family had established all over the world, was remote, and   
paying it a visit had never been a favorite thing for Blair   
Dame to do. The newest daughter of the Puruna family,   
Pullum, was her best friend, but it was normally a custom   
for her to come to the Dame estate, rather than have Blair   
come to the Puruna estate. That was the first clue that   
the situation was not normal.  
  
The white limousine was escorted down the private drive --   
it had to be at least two kilometers long -- leading up to   
the mansion by a bicycle-riding squad of bodyguards in   
white suits. All of the dark-skinned, mustache-bearing men   
had donned their black sunglasses, and they had their   
pistols in plain sight, a second clue that something was   
wrong. Normally, they were informal and happy to see   
Blair. She was tempted to nibble on her fingernails to   
ease her nervousness, but she had to remind herself that   
her manicurist had warned her against that habit.  
  
When her conveyance pulled up in front of the mansion at   
the heart of the estate after what had seemed like the   
longest drive in her memory, Blair waited for one of the   
bodyguards to open her door for her, and she stepped out of   
the white limousine as soon as the red carpet was rolled   
out for her. She had been uncertain as to how to dress   
herself for the unscheduled visit, but she had decided on a   
basic ensemble, a three-piece 'power lunch' suit -- white   
jacket, dark purple button-down shirt, and a white skirt   
that was almost too short -- that had been a good choice   
for her in the past. She did not approve of the dark   
purple high heels, but they had been chosen in haste, and   
they managed to match her hair, at least.  
  
That Blair Dame was a woman of distinction was no secret.   
Her family was one of the most prominent in France, thanks   
to its ownership of multiple businesses, and she was to be   
the heiress to its fortune when her father retired. To   
fill the time until the coming of that day, she kept   
herself busy with socializing, shopping, and modeling.   
Those who knew her had little or no love for her dissolute   
way of life, but they still had to admit that she was   
beautiful in the most classical sense of the word. Her   
bright-as-emeralds eyes, full red lips, well-styled purple   
hair, and perfect pearl-like skin guaranteed her a place on   
more than a few short lists in her uncommon world.  
  
What no one knew about Blair Dame was that she was also a   
trained martial artist. Her father was not a foolish man,   
and he had insisted that all of his children had to learn   
the secrets of self-defense. With his money, it had been   
simple to find the best instructors that such money could   
buy, and Blair had been too happy to follow the wishes of   
her father and learn what those masters could teach her.   
That her training kept her lean and fit was only icing on   
the cake. If she had been of a mind to do it, she would   
have taken part in a formal tournament to see how good she   
had become, but her family had forbidden that.  
  
Blair was greeted in the foyer of the mansion by Pullum,   
who seemed unusually somber and withdrawn. She said, her   
French as impeccable as it had always been, "I need to talk   
to you privately, Blair." That was a third clue that the   
Puruna family had been turned upside-down. Normally,   
meeting with Pullum was a major social occasion in which   
one could speak to luminaries from all over the world. To   
have to deal with her one-on-one was a shock to Blair, and   
her stomach was slightly queasy with unease.  
  
Pullum Puruna was, like her best friend, part of a family   
of entrepreneurs, but, where the Dame family had made its   
fortune by being at the center of key businesses linking   
Europe and the United States, the Puruna family was the   
glue keeping Europe and India bound to each other. Pullum   
did not stand to inherit a fortune, but she was still the   
favorite of every branch of her family, and she openly   
admitted to being spoiled, though her reputation as a human   
rights activist and semi-popular musician belied that.   
Like Blair, she was a woman whose beauty -- waist-length   
black hair, large green eyes, and sun-soaked complexion --   
opened doors, though her taste in clothing was, at least   
according to Blair, garish and slightly racy.  
  
She had opted for a relatively conservative blue-and-green   
sari -- 'relatively conservative' in the sense that it had   
not been cut as daringly as most of what she wore -- on   
that day, and the fact that she had not used any of her   
preferred cosmetics on her face was the fourth, and final,   
clue to Blair that disaster had struck the Puruna estate.   
Everything was abnormal, and it was when Pullum led her to   
a certain study in the mansion that she had the reason why   
her house was as out-of-order as it was.  
  
Her grandfather, who had been the head of the Puruna family   
for over fifty years before he retired and handed control   
of his companies over to his sons in favor of taking up a   
quiet life of study, sat in his favorite overstuffed chair,   
dressed in a customary dark red 'around the house' robe   
that he wore over a maroon three-piece suit, looking as   
regal and white-haired as countless photographs of him   
showed him to be in Puruna family offices around the world.   
Blair was uncertain what to make of the situation until she   
saw that his dark eyes were blank, empty of anything. He   
was not dead, for he was still breathing, but he was   
completely unaware of his surroundings. A cloth-bound book   
with a black, dusty cover and yellowed pages sat open in   
his lap, but Pullum took Blair by the elbow before she   
could look at it, shaking her head slowly.  
  
When Pullum saw that Blair was at a loss for words, she   
said to her, "He has been like that since this morning, and   
the doctors will come for him as soon as they can, but I   
already know that they will be unable to do anything for   
him. That book ... was planted in this house. He said,   
himself, that he had never seen it before, that he already   
knew the books in his study by heart, but his curiosity was   
too much, and, when he started reading it, he ... became   
the way he is now. I do not know why. I only know that   
the word 'Shadaloo' has been written on the cover."  
  
Blair asked, blinking repeatedly as she processed what   
Pullum had told her, "Shadaloo? Why would a defunct   
international crime syndicate send your grandfather ... a   
book? That does not make any sense to me, Pullum. It is   
... too outlandish, too strange." She was familiar with   
Shadaloo through what her father had told her of it in one   
of his tirades about how organized crime impacted his   
fortune, but she only had vague knowledge of it. According   
to what her father had said, it had been all but dismantled   
several years ago, though several of its operatives were   
still at large and being hunted by Interpol.  
  
Pullum replied, "When I was very young and staying with one   
of my uncles in Pondicherry, I met a yogi -- he said that   
his name was Dhalsim -- who was on his way to finding   
enlightenment. My uncle gave him food and a place to   
sleep, and he told me stories when he was not meditating.   
He said, once, that the world is never what it seems to be,   
that we have to look past surfaces and impressions to see   
truth. I remember -- my uncle asked him about a word that   
my father had dropped during a conversation, and he said   
that it was a word of many dark truths. That word ... was   
'Shadaloo', and that is why I am afraid."  
  
"A word is only a word," Blair said, "and there has to be   
more to what has happened to your grandfather than that."   
She pulled up a chair and set it down in front of the   
comatose man, sitting on it to look into his eyes. Again,   
there was only blankness, only emptiness, and it made her   
shiver. What might have happened to one of the kindest,   
most intelligent people she had known in her life to make   
him little more than a shell of a human being?  
  
Pullum said, putting her hands on the shoulders of her   
seated companion, "I know, Blair. That is why I am going   
to investigate everything that has to do with this   
'Shadaloo'. I want to know if it is as you say. I want to   
know if one of those criminals is more than a man, and ...   
I want you to come with me. I know that is a great deal to   
ask of you, but, if I am going to do this, I want you to be   
with me on my journey. I need my best friend for this."   
When Blair tensed up beneath her hands, she knew she was in   
for the argument that she had been expecting.  
  
Blair shot to her feet, saying, "That makes no sense at   
all, Pullum! If you want, you can ask your family to hire   
investigators, to alert Interpol, anything! There is no   
reason to involve yourself in this personally, especially   
if it means that you might be entangling yourself in   
something like Shadaloo. I want no part of it, and, if you   
have a brain in your head, neither do you." She   
immediately regretted what she had said when she saw that   
Pullum was completely serious about what she had asked.  
  
As she closed the eyes of her grandfather with one hand,   
Pullum said, very quietly, "I know that I will be risking   
myself, but there is no one in the world that I love more   
than my grandfather, and I cannot allow Shadaloo to go   
unpunished after doing this to him. I have to ... put it   
right, and I want you to be with me because I know that   
Darun and I cannot do it on our own." Her eyes were   
brimming with tears, and Blair, who had never seen Pullum   
like that, knew that it would be impossible to refuse her.   
She sighed once with resignation.  
  
It then occurred to her to ask, "Wait, who is Darun? Do   
you mean Darun Mister?" She heard the door to the study   
open, and she heard a heavy footfall to announce that the   
man in question had arrived. When she turned to face him,   
he bowed politely, though he was still as tall as she was   
in spite of having to bend his body. His sheer size left   
no doubts in her mind that he was THE Darun Mister, the   
same man she had seen in many different magazines.  
  
Pullum had more relatives than she could count. One of   
them was the proud owner of a professional wrestling   
franchise that had gained underground popularity in Europe,   
and Darun Mister was the top star of that franchise. His   
promoters always boasted that there was no man he could not   
defeat, no hold that he had not mastered. Indeed, he never   
seemed to lose a single match. The trick was that every   
match was staged, every victory decided before a single   
blow was landed. The rumors held that Darun longed to be a   
real fighter, to show the world that he was more than a   
face, but he never granted interviews, and, in the ring, he   
never spoke a single word to anyone outside of calling out   
the names of his painful-looking holds and throws.  
  
Blair stammered, "P-Pleased to meet you." He nodded once   
in response. She was overwhelmed by how tall he was, how   
he seemed to fill the room. There was no denying that he   
had presence. Outside the ring, the dark-skinned, oily-  
mustached, supermuscular man was as awe-inspiring and   
intimidating in a suit and tie as he was in his trunks and   
boots, and the sunglasses that he was wearing only added to   
his mystique. The impressed Blair had to catch her breath   
before saying, "Pullum, if you are taking this man with   
you, I do not know why you would need me at all."  
  
To that, Pullum replied, standing on the tips of her toes   
to pat Darun on the shoulder, "He was trained as a   
bodyguard for my family long before he was a star, Blair,   
but that is what he is: A bodyguard with a duty to my   
family. He walked away from the ring as soon as he heard   
about my grandfather, and he insists that he will be with   
me to the end. You and I are both trained to fight, Blair,   
but I want to leave that to him while you and I do the   
mental work. That is why I need you. You are smart, and   
you will notice things that I miss. More than that,   
though, you are more talkative than he is, as you know. I   
am going to need a friend if this is a long trip."  
  
"Neither you nor I know the first thing about doing   
detective work," Blair said with a trademark smile, one for   
which photographers had paid good money, "but I suppose   
that we can learn on the job. Here is a plan, then: I have   
to return to my estate to pack my things, and I will meet   
the two of you in Nice. If we are going to be discreet   
about this, there will be no airplanes. My father told me   
that Shadaloo used to operate out of Thailand, and the best   
way to get there quietly is by ship. It ... is a start."   
Darun nodded once with approval, and Pullum clapped her   
hands. Blair was already wondering if she had gotten   
herself involved beyond a point of no return.  
  
Pullum said, leading Blair to the door, "There will be no   
delays, then. Once the three of us have good disguises,   
fake documents, and enough paper money to travel, our   
search will begin." It was to be the beginning of a   
journey that would change the lives of its three   
participants, and they had no idea that Shadaloo was still   
alive and well ... and waiting for them.  
  
Kyoto, like Nara, was a former capital, and the large   
number of Shinto shrines in the city was a parallel to the   
presence of many Buddhist temples in Nara. After her   
encounter with Dhalsim, Hokuto was uncertain as to what she   
should expect on her journey, and the wear of her travels   
was starting to exact its psychological toll on her. As   
the Sun was setting on the most recent day -- she had   
stopped keeping track of time -- of her search for Kairi,   
she stopped to rest at a large torii that stood at a place   
where a nameless shrine had been. The spot that it had   
occupied was overgrown with greenery, which only barely   
concealed the signs of its burning by arson in antiquity.  
  
She leaned against the east pillar of the torii, taking a   
deep breath before sitting in a posture of meditation at   
its base. She attempted to clear her mind, but it was   
difficult to pierce through images of her brother, her   
father, her sister to reach the emptiness, the calmness   
that she needed. Her frustration with herself for being   
unable to perform a task that had been simple for her at   
home only served to weaken her concentration, and she had   
to settle for bowing her head and letting the images wash   
over her consciousness against her will.  
  
It was when she was on the verge of shedding a tear that a   
female voice penetrated her confusion, saying, "With a sad   
face like that, you must be looking for a person you love   
very much. I know how you feel. It's about the same for   
me, really. My sensei -- well, he's not my sensei yet, but   
I want him to be -- is wandering the world, and I have to   
find him, but ... finding a way out of Japan, that's not   
the easiest thing to do at my age." Hokuto found herself   
meeting her gaze, blinking at her talkativeness as she   
wondered who was standing in front of the west pillar of   
the torii and interrupting her rest.  
  
She was a young girl, about the same age as Nanase, in a   
bland, typical public school uniform -- it was blue and   
white, with a yellow scarf -- that contrasted sharply with   
the white headband, fingerless red gloves, and American   
athletic shoes that she wore. Her brown hair was cut very   
short, and her eyes, which matched her hair, had a spark in   
them that Hokuto recognized, a spark that was complemented   
by her fierce, 'I can do anything' smile. That she was a   
martial artist was obvious to Hokuto, but it was not easy   
for her to tell how much training she had been given.  
  
The school girl continued, saying, "My name's Sakura,   
Kasugano Sakura, of Tamagawa Minami Koukou. I've ... never   
been the best student, but I like to fight, and that's why   
I'm looking for my sensei. There are things that I need to   
learn from him if I want to be the best that I can be. You   
look like you've already been taught, now that I look at   
you. Are you a street fighter, too?" Her voice was   
irritating, but her spirit was undeniable, and her aura was   
bright, though it was also rather unrefined.  
  
Hokuto rose to her feet, performing a slow series of kata   
to ease her mind as she said, "I am only a miko, but I have   
been trained in the ways of the ancient Mizukami style. I   
am not a street fighter, but ... you seem as though you   
wish to test me. Is that the case?" Sakura was openly   
admiring the way she followed each kata, the way she was   
making each movement with full control and perfection. To   
her eyes, Hokuto was all discipline, all training, but ...   
did she have the raw talent to back it up?  
  
That question settled the affair. Sakura nodded once,   
calling out, as she dropped her backpack to the ground,   
"Hai! I ... don't really know anything about the Mizukami   
style, but you know what you're doing, and you'll be a   
worthy opponent for me and my Ansatsuken! ... I think   
that's what Ryu-san called this style, anyway." She   
settled into a basic, easygoing stance, one that could   
have belonged to many different forms of karate. Hokuto   
matched her by turning to face her, bowing, and dropping   
into the most elementary of the Mizukami stances, the one   
her father had taught to her almost as soon as she could   
walk on her own two feet without holding his hand.  
  
Hokuto said, clenching and unclenching her fists, "The   
Ansatsuken style is only a legend. To tell me that you are   
a follower of the lost way of Goutetsu and Gouken, that is   
vanity. I will test your claim." The first exchange was   
simple, the first part of a pattern. Sakura attempted to   
test her guard with a fist, and she turned that fist   
against her by trapping it and using its force to flip her   
to the ground. She got up instantly, but her enthusiasm   
began to replace itself with caution. Hokuto was not weak.  
  
Sakura then attempted a high kick, but Hokuto grabbed her   
foot and flipped her to the ground a second time, saying,   
"If I only need to use the fundamentals of aikido to beat   
you, Kasugano-san, then I cannot believe that you have any   
understanding of karate." It was then that the surprises   
started to happen, and the fight truly began when Sakura   
showed her exactly what separated the Ansatsuken style from   
the 'karate' with which she had been taunted.  
  
The school girl was spinning through the air with one foot   
extended, calling out, "Shun Pu Kyaku!" Hokuto did not   
know how to counter that, and she took three hard blows to   
her forearms as she brought them up to protect her face.   
She could already feel the potential bruises from the   
attack, and she donned a half-smile of anticipation as she   
realized that the fight was about to become worthwhile.   
She changed her stance very slightly. Basic Mizukami had   
several similarities to aikido, but there was more to the   
style than that, and she was ready to use it.  
  
Sakura landed in a crouch, and it looked like she was   
making ready to leap into the air again when Hokuto turned   
her body, dodging her oncoming uppercut, and twisting   
around to kick her squarely in the chest -- the Shinku   
Geki, though she executed it with a smirk, rather than call   
it what it was. Sakura rolled backwards, regaining her   
feet with surprising ease, and kicking up a small cloud of   
dust with the force of her impact on the ground.  
  
"It looks like you know how to defend and counterattack,"   
the school girl said, coughing once as she brushed away the   
dusty footprint that the miko had left on her chest, "but   
that way of fighting has its limits, you know." She then   
cupped her hands at her side, gathering such Ki there that   
it became visible as a small point of blue-white light.   
She called out, "Hado Ken!" Her cry was accompanied by the   
forward thrust of her hands, and the spark that they had   
been holding became what seemed to be a small fireball.   
Hokuto raised her guard to block it, but it still lifted   
her off her feet and threw her up the shrine stairs that   
lay beyond the torii, and she landed on them with a grunt.  
  
The miko said, in a low voice, "Perhaps you are not all   
talk, then." As Sakura ran towards her, aiming to follow   
up on her advantage, she flipped herself up to regain her   
feet, and she immediately started a kata that, for   
practitioners of the Mizukami style, had evolved into a   
full attack. As she struck Sakura in the chest with her   
right elbow, following it up by 'pushing' her backwards   
with both of her hands together, she shouted, "Cho Geki   
Ho!" The school girl staggered, but she did not fall.  
  
Instead, she spun around, striking Hokuto full on the chin   
with the same uppercut that she had attempted to use   
before, calling out, "Sho O Ken!" Again, Hokuto was lifted   
off her feet, only to land heavily on the shrine stairs.   
She was uncertain as to whether or not the school girl was   
getting the best of her, but ... she did not want to take   
the risk that losing would involve. The Mizukami style   
would not be disgraced by one who only had a weak claim to   
practicing Ansatsuken in spite of her strength.  
  
As Sakura prepared to unleash a second fireball, Hokuto,   
for that instant, saw nothing but red, and the cry that   
erupted from her throat was strange and guttural, though   
words could be subtly distinguished in it: "Ki Ren Eki!"   
As she stood, she drew back one hand, as if pulling on a   
bowstring, and, upon her other hand, intense Ki was   
gathered, appearing as a growing arrow of orange-red flame.   
Sakura, upon seeing what was happening, cast forth her Hado   
Ken, but it was at that moment that Hokuto shot her arrow,   
which dissipated the fireball and crashed into the school   
girl, sending her tumbling down the stairs.  
  
Hokuto blacked out, and, when she came to her senses, she   
saw Sakura lying still at the base of the shrine stairs.   
Slowly, she eased her way down to her fallen opponent,   
checking her pulse to see if she was alive. She was, and   
she was awake, though she was only able to sit up with   
great effort. Hokuto looked away from her, shaking her   
head and whispering, "Please forgive me, Kasugano-san. It   
was not my intention to strike you as hard as I did." To   
her surprise, Sakura only laughed.  
  
The school girl said, rising to her feet and offering a   
hand to Hokuto to help her do the same, "You don't need to   
apologize for going all-out, if that was what that was.   
You beat me, fair and square. I guess that's my way of   
finding out that I still need to train, but ... arigatou,   
you are very, very strong. I don't know who you're trying   
to find, but it looks like you won't have any problems   
taking care of yourself on your way." She shook the hand   
of the miko as enthusiastically as if the fight had never   
happened, and she was off on her way again.  
  
As Sakura walked away, disappearing into the sunset, Hokuto   
said, mostly to herself, "May you have more luck finding   
your 'Ryu' than I have finding my Kairi, Sakura-chan. The   
road ahead of me is still very long." She then put her   
hands to her head, feeling a strong, persistent pounding in   
her skull that prompted her to ask, "H-How did I perform   
that t-technique? Ow, ow! I do not understand." She only   
knew that she had to find Kairi more quickly.  
  
"So, here he is," a male voice said, "the man who's a   
legend in his own time, the guy who can do anything if he   
sets his mind to it for more than a second. Yes, my   
friends, it's good ol' Cracker Jack, the pride of the   
organization, and we're here to work for him. ... It took   
us long enough to find you, Mister Jack. You'd think you   
didn't want to be found." The speaker did not need a name,   
a face, anything. He was a minor annoyance, and that was   
what the hospital record was going to show.  
  
The man to whom the speaker was speaking said, not looking   
at him at all, "You didn't get the note, then. No, you got   
the note, you just chose to ignore it. Big mistake. When   
I say that I'm the only one who picks my people, I mean it.   
I don't need people on the next level up trying to tell me   
that they know my job better than I do. Do you get that?   
If you don't, you'd better think about it for a second,   
because that's the only warning I'm giving you. Get out,   
or I'll put you out, and I'd hate to do that to such a nice   
bar." His voice was as low and rough as the establishment,   
and the smoke from the cigarette in one corner of his mouth   
only contributed to a general haze in the room.  
  
A second man in the group that had come into the bar with   
the speaker added, puncuating his comments with the   
familiar 'snick-snack' of a butterfly knife being folded   
and unfolded, "This one doesn't come from the next level   
up, Mister Jack. It comes from the top, you know, from the   
big man in Thailand. He's tired of you stepping out of   
line and doing your own thing. That kind of cavalier   
attitude might work when the big man is incognito, but he's   
back, and it's not going to fly now. You work with us, or   
you work with the reaper, asshole." In good times, nobody   
called Cracker Jack a bad name. Ever.  
  
Jack lined up his pool cue and took a shot at the balls on   
his table, effortlessly sinking the '13' ball as he said,   
not changing his demeanor, "Funny, there's thirteen of you   
here, and that's the number of the ball I just sank. ...   
I said you got one warning, and you didn't heed it. Looks   
like I need to teach you a few things about working with   
me." He then whipped his body around with unexpected   
speed, breaking his pool cue in half across the face of the   
man with the butterfly knife, who went down in a heap. The   
other twelve rushed him immediately.  
  
The first man to rush him was grabbed by the collar and   
thrown over the pool table, crashing to the floor on the   
other side. The second man met three swift punches to the   
face, earning a black eye, a broken nose, and a broken jaw   
in very rapid succession before falling backwards into a   
chair. Jack spun that chair around and pushed it forward,   
turning the second man into a projectile that took the   
third man to rush him in the stomach and made him vomit   
with the force of the impact. He then took the empty chair   
and spun around again, breaking it over the head of a   
fourth man. The remaining eight, upon seeing what had   
become of their companions, hesitated to approach him, but   
only for a second, and that was all that he needed.  
  
The fifth man whipped out a length of chain and swung it at   
him, but he grabbed the surviving half of the pool cue,   
smirking as the chain wrapped around it. He used the chain   
to pull the man close to him and head-butt him once before   
spinning him around in time for the sixth man to break a   
beer bottle -- the very beer Jack had been drinking,   
unfortunately -- over his head. As the sixth man   
apologized profusely to his unconscious friend, Jack   
grabbed him by the nose, twisted that nose until it broke,   
and let him stumble away with blood streaming down his   
face. Then, he started dodging and swaying as if he was a   
boxer, which, indeed, he had once been.  
  
He popped the seventh man six times in the face before   
turning to kick the eighth man in the groin as he would   
kick a soccer ball, almost lifting him off the ground with   
the force of the kick. As both men collapsed, the ninth   
man and the tenth man tried came at him with billy clubs,   
which he blocked several times with his forearms before   
grabbing a handy table, tipping it over, and making them   
slip in the resulting pool of spilled beer. It was up to   
the eleventh man and the twelfth man. The twelfth man had   
been the original speaker, and he was still looking at the   
fallen thirteenth man, the one with the butterfly knife.  
  
"Twelve is a lucky number," Jack growled, "and thirteen   
isn't, as you can see. I'm a little tired now, so I'll   
give you the option of running away. I'm going to count to   
two. If I make it to two, your ass is mine. One!" The   
twelfth man ran immediately, pushing the eleventh man   
towards Jack to buy himself time. Jack obliged him by   
grabbing the eleventh man by the scruff of the neck and   
throwing him in such a way as to make him slide all the way   
down the bar, breaking several bottles and glasses with his   
passage before he reached the end and simply fell off.  
  
"Smart guy," Jack said, "thinking that I'd let him get away   
before I got to two." He could hear a car starting outside   
the bar, which prompted him to grab one of the groaning,   
prone twelve and throw him through the front window of the   
building, chuckling dryly as he easily broke through the   
glass and landed on the hood of the car, bending it with   
his weight as the impact of his back on the windshield   
produced a crack in THAT glass and knocked the fuzzy dice   
off the rear-view mirror. The man in the car had a look of   
absolute fear on his face as he drove away with his tires   
squealing, unceremoniously dumping his dazed companion on   
the street upon backing out of his parking space.  
  
The bartender had not been idle during the few minutes in   
which the one-sided fight had occurred. He had called the   
local police, but that was not his only means of defense.   
Jack turned from the remains of the front window to see him   
reaching under the bar for what he knew would be a shotgun.   
He took the butt of his cigarette and flicked it, smiling   
as it caught the bartender in his left eye. The man was   
wailing in pain as he fired, his shot going wide as it went   
off with a CRACK. Instead of hitting Jack, it hit the thin   
wire connecting one of several large, globular lamps to the   
ceiling. The glass globe, still intact, started to fall.   
Jack, not one to miss a beat, kicked it, and it flew into   
the wall-length mirror behind the bar, shattering the whole   
thing instantly. The bartender had to drop his shotgun and   
cover his head with his hands as shards of broken glass   
rained down on him from above.  
  
By the time the local police arrived to see what in the   
world had happened at that bar, Jack was already gone. It   
took little or no effort to open the back door with his   
foot and walk away from the whole thing without a scratch,   
but he had to say to himself, "Well, maybe, just maybe, I   
got a little carried away, but no one tells me what to do.   
If I had any idea that the big man in Thailand was that   
stupid, I'd never have started working for him. Ha, screw   
Shadaloo, then. I'll do a better job on my own. ... Too   
bad for those guys, Shadaloo never had great health   
insurance, anyway." He could hear the sirens in the part   
of the city that he had vacated, but they did not concern   
him. He had no fear for any police force.  
  
Later, in his hotel room, he had to add, "It looks like I'm   
wanted in another country. Ah, well. Portugal sucks, I   
don't care if I'm wanted here. Spain's got a better   
view." He opened a briefcase that had been filled with   
many different currencies, picking several that he liked   
and abandoning the rest, observing, "I've got enough to get   
to Istanbul by boat from, say, Barcelona, but a stop in   
Italy's not out of the question. Have to cover my tracks   
the old-fashioned way: No jets for Jack." He left by way   
of the fire escape, assuming that the money he left behind   
him would be more than enough for the room.  
  
It was when he saw the thirteen men again, in bandages and   
casts, that he started to rethink his plan. They had been   
given guns, and they had brought ten times as many other   
men with them, which prompted him to mutter, "Here I am   
thinking that Shadaloo was a small-time group. Big mistake   
on my part, I guess. 'Tween them and Interpol, I'm going   
to be busy for a while." He did not have a plan for being   
hunted by both sides of the law, but he did not need one.   
He was Cracker Jack. For him, there was always a way out.  
  
There was gunfire, there was a slew of insults shouted at   
him, and there was, above all, just enough time to steal a   
six-pack of Portugese beer -- he opened one, drank from it,   
spat out what he had drunk, and threw the rest away in such   
a way as to cause a car accident and disrupt traffic --   
from a man on the street, but that was par for the course   
where he was concerned.  
  
Night had come to Kyoto, but Hokuto, who was attempting to   
sleep in what had once been a city bus station, had no rest   
for herself. The same pain was in her head, and the same   
question was always on her mind: "How did I perform that   
technique?" As much as she tossed and turned on the bench   
that she had picked out for herself, she could not find any   
answers ... except one, but she did not want that to be the   
correct answer, the only answer. It would dull the point   
of her search. It would make her redundant.  
  
The words of Dhalsim were as clear as crystal in her head:   
"You are joined to him by blood, and you are joined to him   
by fire. If you seek him, you must heed your blood, you   
must not heed the fire. It will consume you as it wishes   
to consume him." Her breath became short, and she could   
not stop shivering in spite of the fact that the air around   
her was not cold. Was it a fever? She had to hope that it   
was, but the face of Dhalsim, particularly his strange,   
white eyes, dominated her thoughts like the face of a   
ghost, which he may well have been.  
  
Her training had not been neglected, and, when her   
frustration pushed her up against a wall in her brain, she   
turned to her concentration, her discipline. She turned to   
face her fever, only to find herself standing before a   
phantom in the empty station. The light of the Moon   
illuminated a solitary figure in the middle of the street.   
He was like a shadow, but Hokuto intuitively knew that it   
was Kairi. She walked towards him with caution in her   
steps, and he did not move, but she paused when she saw a   
different, larger shadow looming behind him. She wanted to   
shout a warning, but she could not find her breath.  
  
There was a whisper, a hiss of air that touched her ears:  
"Ka. Ji. Ka. Mi. It is the way of fire, the way of   
strength. This boy already knows it. Do you want his   
knowledge?" She wanted to refuse the voice, but she was   
still voiceless herself. She fell to her knees, her hands   
clawing at the ground as if to find a refusal beneath its   
surface. Kairi was gone, but the figure still loomed over   
her, its shadow threatening to swallow her whole, to   
consume her as if was less than nothing. It was when it   
reached a hand out to touch her face that a light shined   
from behind, driving back her enemy and dissipating it.  
  
She glanced over her shoulder, and she saw a new shadow   
standing at the center of the light. At first, she thought   
that it was Kairi, but it was not quite as tall, not quite   
as broad. There was a sense of peace and calmness in the   
light, and the voice that issued from its owner said, "You   
are safe. There is no danger here. Recall that you are of   
the Mizukami, not of the Kajikami. You must be strong, but   
do not surrender yourself to the fire in your blood." He   
then disappeared, and she was alone.  
  
Her dark eyes snapped open. She was still lying on the   
bench in the empty station, and the whole encounter had   
been a product of her imagination. The first light of   
morning was making itself known in the sky, and she was   
thankful that she had slept, though her dreams had not been   
restful. She felt a wetness on her forehead where she   
normally wore her headband, and she touched her fingertips   
to the wet spot. They came away with spots of fresh blood   
on them, and she had to ask herself how real her dreams had   
been. She retied her headband to conceal the wound, if it   
was indeed a wound, and she rose to her feet.  
  
She started to perform the same kata that she had used to   
intimidate Sakura, and all of the movements still came to   
her easily. She was confident in her ability to use the   
Mizukami style, but ... she had to know the truth. She   
switched to a more arcane, more complicated kata, and she   
did not find it difficult. She switched to a truly   
intricate kata that she had once observed her father using,   
and she still did not find it difficult. She performed a   
whole series of kata, quickening her movements, executing   
her motions with more force. A cold sweat broke out on her   
face, but she did not stop what she was doing.  
  
Hokuto started to act as if she was engaged in combat,   
performing every move that she had been taught as a student   
of the Mizukami style by heart, for that was how she knew   
it. She moved faster and faster, she attacked the air with   
more and more force. Her face, which had been neutral with   
concentration and focus, came alive with anger and   
frustration, and she became a blur of motion. Had her   
father been keeping a secret? Had she been holding back   
her strength without thinking about it?  
  
She knew the answer, and she shouted it to the sky: "NO!"   
It was then that her very hands seemed to come alive with   
blue-white fire, raw Ki pulled from her emotions. She   
inhaled sharply, and, as soon as she had the realization   
that she tapped a new power in her spirit, she whispered to   
herself, "That ... must be Kajikami, then. It IS strength,   
or, at least, it is at the base of the desire to grow   
stronger. What have I done ... ?" From beneath her   
headband, a thin trickle of blood made its way down her   
face, past one eye and down the side of her nose, dripping   
to the ground from her upper lip as it stained the   
whiteness of her headband red.  
  
As she staggered and stumbled away from the place where she   
had slept, still searching for her brother, she recalled a   
story that her father had told her: "Hokuto-chan, water   
extinguishes fire. It is the water that keeps the fire   
from consuming all that it touches. When you prick your   
finger, you see blood, and that is like water, but it is   
alive with the fire of life. In blood, water and fire flow   
together, bound by a seal that the spirits of the world   
have made. If you must remember one thing, it is to always   
honor that seal of blood, to keep it sacred in your heart   
on any journey that you take."  
  
Istanbul had been the center of the world in antiquity, and   
it was, in many ways, still a hub of travel and commerce,   
the symbolic gate that separated Europe and Asia,   
Christianity and Islam. Pullum did not speak Turkish, and   
Darun did not seem to speak at all, but both Blair and   
Pullum had at least a partial command of Arabic, courtesy   
of the connections of their families to large parts of   
Africa and Asia that had once been under French control.   
Arabic allowed them to make their way through the city,   
though it was hardly the public language.  
  
Pullum had placed herself in charge of the investigation,   
and she was content to ask shady characters about the 'dark   
ways' to get into Thailand, the ways that the underworld   
used for smuggling, spying, and the like. Unfortunately   
for her, she did not quite realize that her questions had a   
tendency to draw the attention of the aforementioned   
underworld, and the number of people following her --   
people that only watchful Darun noticed, and who balked at   
his glare -- gradually increased as she and Blair made   
their way around the seedy side of the city.  
  
Blair repeatedly attempted to warn Pullum against what she   
was doing, but, once her best friend made up her mind about   
a course of action, she did not change it for anything.   
That mentality had been good for her family in business,   
but it was not good for her in what she was doing. At the   
end of their first day in Istanbul, they were surrounded in   
a warehouse that Pullum had been told was a base of   
operations for Shadaloo. When she saw the armed men, she   
thought that she had hit a jackpot, but they did not look   
like they were eager to give her any information.  
  
Their leader, a man with a bandaged face who was constantly   
folding and unfolding a butterfly knife with one hand,   
said, openly leering at her, "You must be a fake belly   
dancer to be asking questions like those, girl." It was   
not the first time that Pullum had wished that she had   
picked out a different outfit -- Blair was wearing a 'power   
lunch' suit that was a variation on the one that she had   
worn for their initial meeting -- for that day, but she did   
not challenge his claim. He added, "I hate to smash up   
such a cute face, but you and your two friends are getting   
too curious in places where curiosity is a bad thing." He   
snapped the fingers of his free hand, and his companions   
started to approach the three travelers, thinking, perhaps,   
that only Darun would put up a fight.  
  
As soon as one of the armed men made a grab for Pullum, she   
quickly flipped her entire body through the air, kicking   
him once on his chin as she gracefully returned to the   
ground. Blair ducked under the arms of another man, using   
both of her legs like a pair of scissors to grab him by the   
knees and throw him to the floor effortlessly. Darun, for   
his part, simply put his holds on all comers, absently   
breaking them over his knee or against a wall with little   
or no thought. The fight seemed to be over before it had   
began, but the man with the butterfly knife was unhurt, and   
he snapped his fingers a second time.  
  
A low, rough voice growled in Spanish, "If you're looking   
for the boys you had outside, you didn't get your money's   
worth." The front door of the warehouse was open, and   
light was streaming through it, obscuring the figure who   
stood there. To make his presence clear, he tossed the   
unconscious man he had dragged with him -- the ruffian   
looked like he had been beat across the head with a blunt,   
heavy object -- to the floor in front of the man with the   
butterfly knife, adding, "I hope that you get ALL of my   
point this time. I'm getting really tired of dealing with   
you, and I don't have a drop of either patience or sympathy   
in me today, so be smart, okay?"  
  
The leader of the thugs did not run. Instead, he ran at   
the silhouette in the doorway with a long, continuing   
scream, brandishing his weapon. He was unsuccessful in his   
attack. As soon as he reached his opponent, that man   
grabbed him by the wrist, twisting it to break it and make   
him drop the butterfly knife, which he then kicked away.   
The poor thug resigned himself to creeping away, holding   
his useless hand to his chest as his companions followed   
suit, ushered on their way by kicks to the bum from the man   
who had humiliated their best fighter ... not for the first   
time in his life, it seemed.  
  
When the man closed the door behind the gang and turned to   
face the three people he had assisted, the watchful Blair   
had her first good look at him. He was not very tall, but   
he was solid muscle. He wore a white button-down shirt --   
its sleeves had apparently been removed -- that was open to   
expose most of his broad chest, though he also had a red   
tie around his bare neck as if he was going to a meeting in   
which a tie was required and a shirt was optional. His   
creaseless slacks, held up by a white belt with a gold   
buckle, were dark blue, and his brown loafers matched the   
leather gloves that he wore. His broad, frowning face was   
clean-shaven, but his dark hair was thick, and he had heavy   
sideburns. Blair could not see his eyes due to his hat, a   
dark blue, wide-brimmed affair that would not have been   
stylish on any other man but him.  
  
He picked up a wooden baseball bat that he had temporarily   
discarded for the purpose of beating up the thugs,   
balancing it easily on one shoulder as he said, "You people   
don't work for anybody, but you know about Shadaloo.   
That's pretty rich if you look at the fact that you've been   
doing your information-gathering like a bunch of rank   
amateurs. Everybody in this city probably knows about you   
and your questions by now. If they hadn't been busy with   
me, I know those guys would've jumped you long ago. What   
the Hell are you doing here, sightseeing?"  
  
Pullum was about to speak when Blair, taking offense at his   
lack of manners, said, happy that her Spanish was superior   
to her Arabic, "We are trying to get to Thailand to find   
Shadaloo, monsieur, and we have to do it quickly. The   
life of a good man hangs in the balance." He chuckled at   
her, and her face turned red with her anger as she added,   
"There is nothing funny about dying, nothing at all! Who   
are you, and why are you getting in my -- in our -- way?"  
  
He replied, taking several half-hearted practice swings   
with his bat as he spoke, "French, huh? I can tell by your   
sneer. Look, I know all about that whole 'Gramps Puruna'   
thing, and the old man's lucky that's the only thing that   
happened to him. If you want him back, looking for the big   
man in Thailand's not going to do anything for you. You   
won't see him. Do you know why? If you go looking for   
him, you won't live long enough to see him. Hell, I used   
to work for Shadaloo, and I never saw him. You and your   
friends are better off going home before you get yourselves   
killed ... or worse. This ain't a game for heiresses and   
pro wrestlers. It's serious business."  
  
Blair said, still angry, "You did not answer my question.   
Who are you, and why are you here? You say you used to   
work for Shadaloo. That means you know something, and I   
want to know what it is. Trying to intimidate us is not   
going to work." Considering that she had been originally   
reluctant to accompany Darun and Pullum, she was surprising   
herself with how eager she was to have the truth out of a   
man who was going out of his way to bother her.  
  
"I'm Cracker Jack," he said, pulling a cigarette out of one   
pocket and lighting it with a match that he seemed to   
produce from nowhere, "and I'm here because I'm on the run   
from the people you're trying to find. If you read the   
paper when you're getting your nails done, you've probably   
heard of at least one bad thing I've done. The idiots who   
were here before refuse to leave me alone, and I'm getting   
sick of it. When I heard about the three of you in   
Istanbul, I thought it might be a good idea if I gave you a   
head's-up about what it is you're trying to do. If you   
won't be persuaded to give it up, I guess I'll have to show   
you the way to the big man in Thailand."  
  
Pullum was about to speak again, but Blair did not   
relinquish the spotlight. She challenged Jack, saying,   
"You said, yourself, that you have never seen this so-  
called 'big man'. I do not trust you to be a guide, and   
... you saw our handiwork. We can defend ourselves if   
necessary. We do not need you, even if we DO need your   
information. Do not overinvolve yourself."  
  
He blew a small cloud of smoke into her face, causing her   
to descend into a fit of coughing and watery eyes as he   
commented, "Couldn't defend yourself from that, could you?   
I'll cut you a deal, then. Miss Puruna here has the   
musclehead for a bodyguard. I know who you are, too.   
You're Blair Dame, and I can't think of too many other   
people who'd be great ransom fodder. You'll need a   
bodyguard, too, and I'll be happy to do that for you. In   
fact, I'll insist on it. I've got a bone to pick with   
Shadaloo nowadays, and I think you'd be stupid to refuse my   
generosity. I won't even ask for your money, even though I   
know you've got plenty of it. How does that sound?"  
  
Pullum interceded for the coughing, hacking Blair, saying,   
"All right, Mister Jack, but Darun and I want to test you.   
If we have to trust you, we want to know that you are worth   
it. Darun will fight you. If you can beat him, I will   
have a little faith in you. How does THAT sound?" He   
smirked at her, and he sized up Darun, who had a thin,   
ominous smile beneath his mustache, with one glance.  
  
Jack said, chuckling dryly as he discarded his bat again,   
"I guess Miss Dame's the realist on this team. Okay, Miss   
Puruna, I'll play your game. If he's your bodyguard, I'm   
sure you're getting about a penny of use out of him for   
every dollar that you've spent, so, yeah, I'll mix it up   
with him if it gives him something to do for two minutes."   
If Darun was angry, his anger did not show on his impassive   
face, though the smile that he had been wearing had   
disappeared. The wrestler spread his feet wide and held up   
his huge, meaty hands, sticking to a stance that was   
comfortable for him, since he did not know too much about   
the way Jack fought in a one-on-one match.  
  
The two men circled each other for a long moment before   
Darun, growing slightly impatient, attempting to grab at   
Jack, who simply danced out of the way like a boxer as he   
wound up a punch, but did not throw it, the cigarette still   
hanging from one corner of his mouth all the while. Darun   
grabbed at him a second time, and, again, he danced out of   
the way, still winding up his punch. Darun grabbed at him   
a third time, knocking over a pile of empty shipping   
crates, and it was then that Jack struck, hitting the   
wrestler dead in the face with a balled fist ... and   
knocking him on his rear end. Darun wiped a little blood   
from a busted lower lip with the back of one hand before   
nodding to Pullum that he approved of the new addition to   
the team in spite of the reservations of Blair.  
  
Blair herself had been watching with red eyes and the smell   
of smoke still in her nostrils, but she said, when it was   
over, "Very well, we will do this YOUR way for now, Mister   
Jack, but you must know that I am going to watch your every   
move. The instant you turn on us will be the instant that   
I take you down. Let there be no misunderstanding about   
that." He adjusted his hat slightly, smirking at her as he   
nodded his agreement while crushing the butt of his   
finished cigarette beneath one foot.  
  
He replied, absently helping Darun to get to his feet by   
pulling on his mustache with one hand while picking up the   
bat with the other hand, "I look forward to that, Miss   
Dame, because no one's been able to do it yet. Now, let's   
skip the chit-chat and get out of here before the idiots   
come back for you. We're going to have to start taking   
trains if we want to get to Thailand from here, so there's   
no sense in wasting any time. Come on, hop!" He gave her   
a little shove as he walked past her, and he pretended not   
to notice the look of exasperation she directed at his   
back. Darun, who was applying new oil to his ruined   
mustache, gave her a sympathetic look, but Pullum was still   
filled with determination. Nothing could keep her down.  
  
The 'fake belly dancer' said to herself, following her   
three companions out of the warehouse as she dusted off her   
clothes and put her hair back in its proper place, "We will   
save you yet, Grandfather. You always told me that help   
comes from the most unexpected places, and that is very   
true now. I have a good feeling. ... Poor Blair, though!   
She must be feeling awfully irate to be sulking like   
that." Indeed, Blair looked as though she was nurturing a   
thunderstorm in her eyes, to which she was applying drops.  
  
Jack muttered, "I'd be doing this myself if Shadaloo didn't   
have so many people. I hate dragging innocents into this,   
but I'll do what I have to do for peace and quiet. There's   
no point in running like a fool when I can take the fight   
to the King Idiot. ... Thailand had better be a nice   
place at this time of the year." His complaining continued   
in that vein for most of the time that he was with the   
group, but he generally directed it at himself, though   
Blair often thought that he was talking about her in spite   
of his endless insistence that he was not.  
  
-- End, Chapter 2 -- 


End file.
